


If I could only (a draft)

by S_IRIS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-07-14
Updated: 2007-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 23:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: This is just me saving an old fic. Please don't read it. . .  it's meant as a drive sort of storage so that I don't forget which doc is what





	If I could only (a draft)

Original fic: Chapter 7

 

Sherlock claimed that he understood. He knew why Dr. Watson had said no. It was not lack of attraction, it was because the man was as ethical as the Pope, and because he was a little concerned about his career, and too concerned about Sherlock's future. He could see the proof for himself, as he sat in his flat, surrounded by notes and post-its regarding his Organic Chemistry project. According to logic, Dr. Watson must be interested in him. And yet, there was that tiny nagging sensation in the back of his head, the one that made him feel like that he was making it all up, that he was imagining it, mistaking the teacher's attentions for something else.

_The question is hypothetical and I'm not gay._

Nice way to avoid answering. Hypothetical question.

_I'm settling for the life of a professor!_

Sherlock suddenly found himself wondering what Dr. Watson had wanted to be when he was a kid. He looked like he was very content to be a teacher, given how serious he was about his pathetic job at the university.

"You did what?!" Molly looked dumbfounded when Sherlock simply told her about what he had done. She seemed appalled at his daring, "Sherlock, do you have any idea of what you have done? He's your professor! And you're lucky that he's decent enough—"

"Thank you for pointing out the knowledge that you, I, a hundred other students and surely my dear brother knows about."

"So, you just went and  _asked him out_?! Who does that?"

They were meeting at Sherlock's flat to work their chemistry project out. Sherlock had an idea, but he wondered if it would be legal. At any rate, he had not yet discussed it with Molly, and he wasn't sure if she would approve.

"And there's ninety percent chance that he is straight. And he must be almost 30—"

"Twenty eight years, seven months and nine days," Sherlock interrupted, and Molly let out an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm going to pretend that you didn't hack into the university records to find that out."

"Not just pretend," Sherlock said brightly, showing her his laptop, "Want to see?"

"Sherlock, be serious about this. You're endangering his career. If not yourself, think about him."

"You think I don't know?" Sherlock stood up suddenly and approached her, "You think  _I_  haven't thought it through? Me?"

Molly backed away, a little spooked. There were sometimes when Sherlock could be truly scary, and this was one of them, as he towered over her, his face still bland and full of thoughts while his body language assertive and dominant. Molly knew that Sherlock was particularly sensitive when it came to rejection, in fact he rejected people closest to him for the fear of rejection from them, but she really couldn't understand why Sherlock kept pressing Dr. Watson even after his constant rebuttal, why Sherlock didn't shirk away from the blatant rejection that he threw in his direction. Was he that special? In such a short time?

Sherlock messed his hair up, while adjusting them such that they didn't even graze the nape of his neck. His hair was getting longer again, and the only reason he wanted to keep it that way was because it annoyed a certain fat git who was upset over his receding hairline.

"Does everything have to be about someone's sexuality in here? He's straight, big deal! So what? Can't he just like me for who I am?"

Molly shook her head. She couldn't believe that they were arguing about this, despite how insanely sensible Sherlock's words were, "Even if that were the case, Sherlock, you insult him regularly in the class. What makes you think... look, I'm just concerned about you. I don't want to see you get hurt, okay?"

Sherlock wanted to respond with a cutting retort, but upon seeing the dark circles beneath her eyes and how tired she looked, he settled down in his armchair, and started jotting down all that he was going to need, while Molly poured over her textbook, an uncomfortable silence hanging over them.

* * *

A few miles away, John was just finishing up with marking all the papers. He opened up his email, browsing through them to read them up, especially one that was offering him professorship in some other university for 64K per year. He leaned back on the couch, and took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose and forced himself down to contemplation for some time before Jeanette arrived from work.

He was still grappling to come in terms with reality. He still couldn't believe his nerve. Holmes had actually asked him out. He marvelled at his guts, as he found his blood pressure skyrocketing at the thought. All he could do was thank God for enabling his mouth to refuse him politely.

But it was hard to just sit back and try and push him out of his thoughts, away from his mind. By God, it was hard to forget his face, and the questions that he had laid down in front of him, two very daunting questions. He knew he wasn't gay. He had never felt attracted to men. Never. Ever. Holmes was an exception, but then he had to be, hadn't he? John had never met anyone like him, so. . . different, refreshingly different and exciting, a complete departure from his otherwise mundane, boring life. What Holmes was now was what John, in many ways, used to be when he was in college, before his mum and dad had taken away his enlistment forms, and his dream to go and serve in the army. A Ph. D was way better, they had decided. By twenty-six, one would get out of university with a degree and then by twenty-eight, he would start as a professor in some university, undertake some research work, and make his way up. The stable, sedentary life (as Holmes had put it) behind a desk, nose buried in papers and eyes hidden behind glasses so that no one could see them. Well, he didn't fucking want that.

He knew what he wanted, and he didn't have that. He could never have that, or mostly he wasn't going to let himself have that.

He replayed his conversation with Holmes back in his mind, and let out a hollow chuckle when he realised that he had used the exact same words with him, the exact same words which his parents had used to explain to him that the army wasn't a sensible decision. He hadn't managed to struggle out of it, but Holmes was stronger, stronger than he was at least. He had forgotten to be like that for some time. He had forgotten how to be in control. Had he been in control, Holmes would never even have dared to look up towards him for a second time, and now it was all just getting out of his hand. It just wasn't right. To fall for a student, and that too male, and that too during his first year of professorship itself was bad. He felt confused, about what he was, whether he even knew himself in the course of all that, feeling like a complete stranger to himself.

_If I wasn't your student, and if you weren't my professor, would you have gone out with me?_

Would he have?

John put his glasses back on and returned to another stack of test papers he had left for marking, but since he had nothing productive to do, he decided to finish with them. Halfway through, he came across a legible, spidery scrawl with the name Holmes, W on it. John looked away, not believing himself. His heart had started to beat faster just upon seeing his name. He ran his fingers over his paper, closing his eyes, imagining Holmes' hands moving across it, looking annoyed at having set such an easy and useless paper and glaring daggers at his professor for wasting his precious time, John remembered with a smile on his face. It was all he allowed himself to have of him. He swallowed at the imaginary feeling, and removed his hand, clasping it with his right hand to return to reality, to break that illusion.

The phone sitting on the table beside him rang loudly, startling him from his reverie. He glanced at the number, it was unknown. After a few minutes, he decided to take the call, "Hello?"

"Hey, professor," came a drawl from the other side. John's heart leapt up several non-existent metres in his chest when he heard that voice, "Sher—Holmes?"

He heard an exaggerated sigh on the other side of the phone, "Stick with one,  _professor_. Either Holmes, or Sherlock, although I prefer the latter."

John smiled to himself, and all that he had made his mind up about was forgotten at once, "I'll go for Holmes, thank you very much."

There was silence on the other side, and John wondered whether Sherlock had hung up, wished to himself that he hadn't. He wished to himself that he had. Sherlock always did that, making him feel unsure of what he knew with all his heart, and yet somehow, affirmed it inside him.

"Mr. Holmes? Are you there?"

"Oh, Lord. Did you hear the dial tone?" Sherlock drawled.

"No... I suppose you're on line then."

"Hmm." And some more silence.

"So..." John began casually, carefully, not to give his student any new ways to flirt with him so cheekily. "How'd you get my number?"

"Pfft. I thought you would be interesting to talk to. How naive of me to think so! You're just as boring as your lectures."

John sighed, smiling and wanting to ask him whether this was his new flirting technique, "So, am I to assume that you'll be regularly calling my phone now?"

"Oh, please! I'm not as jobless as you think. As for your number, I—ahem—acquired your business card, ages ago."

Jeanette arrived, smiling at him sweetly. She looked really nice. He returned her smile weakly, trying to check her out only to find that Holmes had all of his attention. John swallowed and looked away, "Look, Mr. Holmes, I'm really busy now, so—"

"I bet it's something uninteresting," John could hear him smirking over the phone, "Tell me about it."

"John?" came Jeanette's voice from her room. John's palm went to hastily cover the mouthpiece, "Give me one minute, darling."

"Ooh, darling?" Sherlock cooed from the other end and it felt like a whip across his bare back, "Is that what you're calling your girlfriend? How pedestrian!"

"Sherl—Mr. Holmes, why have you called me?" he almost hissed into the phone.

"Erm... I was just hoping you had changed your mind about my proposition."

John found himself reddening but he managed to find his voice anyway. He knew what he wanted. He wasn't fickle-minded, he needed to reject Sherlock once more."The answer's still no, Mr. Holmes. You're still my student, and I'm not gay."

Sherlock let out a deep chuckle, "I didn't say you were gay. I merely asked you whether you'd like to be my boyfriend. Why do you have to introduce an unnecessary keyword?"

John literally sprinted to his room, not wanting Jeanette to hear anything about the conversation. He was just thankful that Sherlock didn't ask him anything as weird and awkward as wanting to fuck him in the classroom or his office or something. He could swear that there was someone else beside Holmes, probably that girl/friend of his, "I don't think I want to have this conversation."

"Right. Anyway, professor, did you figure out my riddles yet? Or would you like an... intimation?"

John swallowed at the choice of his word. He knew his shallow breathing could be heard over the phone, and he hated himself for that, "I have more important things to do, than to play your little mind games, Mr. Holmes."

Another chuckle. "No, you don't. In fact, you're enjoying this."

"Excuse me?"

"Otherwise you would've cut the phone as soon as your girlfriend had arrived. And before you tell me that she's not," John gulped when he heard that. He was just about to tell him that. "I know for a fact that she is, I've known for ages. You can fool everyone, professor, but you can't fool me. I know that you aren't happy with her, just like you aren't happy with your job."

John couldn't reply. He just held on to the phone like it was the most precious thing in the whole world, like it was his lifeline. He wanted his finger to reach out and press that little 'end call' button, but he found that he couldn't, not with Holmes' deep voice keeping him in place, hypnotising him.

"I've seen how you change around me, John," Sherlock continued, this time his voice much gentler and much more tender than he had ever heard, and suddenly John felt like he was the immature one in there. Holmes understood this more than he had expected, "Stop denying it—"

"I'm marking your paper now, Mr. Holmes," John spoke with difficulty, hating every word that came out of his mouth to silence Sherlock, "unless you want me to fail you."

"Do that. See, I told you. You want this, but you're too repressed."

"John?" came Jeanette's voice from outside his room. John didn't bother to open the door and grace her with a look.

"I expect that essay on synapses on my desk on Thursday, Mr. Holmes," John straightened up and looked at himself in the mirror: he had ruffled his hair so much and he was so flushed that he looked like he had just had sex, "Try and study hard."

And before Sherlock could say anything else, he cut the phone and sat down on his bed, thinking about why Holmes always set down truths in front of him like the Ten Commandments. He felt thankful that he wasn't calling him back anymore. He tried his best not to take the phone back in his hand, but he found that he had already somehow saved his number in his phone, not under the name Holmes, but under Sherlock.

A few miles away, Molly took a sample of Sherlock's blood and transferred it into a vial, as Sherlock just sat on the stool, wondering what Dr. Watson was thinking, about who he was thinking.


End file.
